


the booth in the back

by wordcatchers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathroom Sex, Divorced Hermione Granger & Ron Weasley, F/F, Gay Bar, Infertility, Muggle Life, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Permanent Injury, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-19 08:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29871924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordcatchers/pseuds/wordcatchers
Summary: After some time frequenting the same Muggle bar for one-night stands, Narcissa considers leaving and finding another establishment.That is until she hears something that she should not ever hear in a place full of Muggles.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 19
Kudos: 166





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself I was going to write smut inspired by ["Deep Blue" by The Midnight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VoD8RSnfpyo). The title for this fic is from the lyrics.
> 
> Over the course of about four days writing off-and-on, there was a bunch of feelings and no smut.
> 
> Eventually, there is some smut. (Not in this chapter, though.)
> 
> Self-edited, no beta. All mistakes, errors, etc. are my own.

Flicking through the names and accompanying still photographs on her mobile, Narcissa ran her tongue over her lower lip, subtly re-applying a charm that never failed to prevent her lips from cracking. Counter-intuitive to the Muggle women she found herself taking to bed, some of them posing the question of how she could have such smooth and soft lips when she appeared to lick them fairly often. She would merely flash her most coy smile and whisper that it was, “Magic, love,” always drawing some sort of giggle or throaty chuckle from them. Never mind that she was finding all the ways to skirt the line that made up the Statute of Secrecy by what she did with these ladies.

But it never lasted more than one night.

And for months she convinced herself that she was more than all right with that, despite Andromeda telling her that she deserved more than what she had once experienced with Lucius, arguably the only pure-blooded Slytherin man not of her own blood who had been worth anything _and_ had the looks to go with it. Granted, he had forfeited whatever he had been worth after he had put their child in mortal danger. And he’d never been the type of person she’d wanted to make a life with, but she had made do to please pure-blood society, or more importantly in her teenage mind, her parents. But it hadn’t pleased them, as she later found out nothing she did ever would.

They _would_ be horrified if they were still alive to find out that their only other remaining child was spending Saturday after Saturday evening in a Muggle bar meant for women interested in other women. But these women? They knew nothing of what her name truly meant, her past, who she was always expected to be in the eyes of others. She was simply Narcissa Black here, a woman who could easily have others believing that she was in her mid-thirties despite creeping past fifty now. She did have at least an extra fifty or so years of life when compared to these ladies, though. Which would be unfortunate if she was actively looking for a lasting relationship with one.

Yet she wasn’t. For all the temptation, she knew she was still held somewhat captive by her upbringing, and even if she _wasn’t_ she couldn’t see herself having a future with someone who would die of natural causes far before the end of her own natural lifespan. And there was the matter of her past, something she could never lie about to someone she would come to know beyond a one-night stand.

And this was partially why she was here on a Thursday evening instead of the usual Saturday because too many of her one-night stands had tried coming back for more. Which was altogether flattering, but she… couldn’t allow herself that, even if her life was different and she was otherwise entirely unfazed by the prospect of entering into a relationship with a Muggle. Barring her son who brought her immense joy, she had simply been denied happiness for so long that it was the only thing she was used to, which infuriated Andromeda to no end. So what if there was a chance for happiness here in the Muggle world with a woman who possessed no magic? Disregarding what else held her back, she still couldn’t allow herself to reach for it.

Instead, she sat at the booth in the back, one she typically made her home in while at this place, idle hands grasping the whiskey glass in front of her and taking drinks from it while furtively moving her gaze about the rest of the establishment. Some other booths and seats were empty, and the bar itself was emptier than on the weekends when one couldn’t move without bumping into another woman every several steps or less. But she was able to make out distinct couplings on the floor dancing to the pulses of music coming from the small stage off to the side of the business. On Saturdays it was more of a throng someone could lose themselves in; one Narcissa frequently found _herself_ in said position. Lost among other bodies, almost anonymous until she was sought out by another woman or found someone appealing to warm her bed and body for the night.

Tonight everything was so much more intimate, and she tapped her fingers almost nervously against the glass, now more than half-emptied. She downed the rest of it within another few minutes and pushed herself from the booth as one song ended to melt into an intermission before the next musical act appeared on stage. Perhaps she’d let herself enjoy a slow dance before leaving without someone tonight, as she wasn’t sure that the small crowd assembled here were even seeking one-night stands. Many looked as if they were already together and, taking a chance to look out of her peripheral vision towards the bar, none of the singles sitting on stools looked as if they were seeking anything more than a drink to nurse. She ran slender fingers back through her blonde hair and blew out a breath between her teeth, wondering why she’d even decided on this versus simply seeking out another establishment altogether. She considered for a moment doing just that.

Until she heard something she should not _ever_ hear in a place full of Muggles.

“—like an _Imperius_ curse all this time,” a slightly slurred voice reached her ears, and she slid her eyes to the right, finding the breath completely taken out of her at the sight of a woman with distinct brown curls, unmistakable as Hermione Granger— no, wait, wasn’t it Weasley now? She didn’t quite keep up with news of marriages, only particularly invested in her son’s and his happiness along with his wife’s. But no, this was… definitely the same witch, only more mature in appearance, that she’d last seen at her trial in 1998. Nine years ago. The woman had to be in her late twenties now. But what was she doing here alone, in the Muggle world, at a place like this?

She remembered her as the Granger girl, a teenager writhing under her eldest sister’s torture methods at the manor she had once happily called home, once watched her son fly on his toy broomstick around the many corridors as a toddler, a place filled with what she had once thought too many good memories to ever be sullied by anything. Until Tom Riddle had proved her wrong and taken away every lingering bit of light that the household had ever known. The torture of a teenager, something that had not happened until Hermione Granger was pulled into their drawing-room, hadn’t been the last straw— no, that had happened when Draco was punished for failing to carry out his task. He had not been explicitly tortured, but his tears and broken features as his parents were tortured in front of him… as she held him that evening, still loaded up with healing potions to offset the effects of the _Cruciatus_ , that had been her breaking point. But she had still stayed past that, and that choice— though it had spared her life and the life of the son, still haunted her at times.

She knew that her breaking point should have happened far, far before then, but she still… she had been wrong all along. And she paid for it as she should, eventually seeking refuge she did not deserve in the Muggle world where she wasn’t known at all. Not even the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice’s testimony could save her from people’s distrust of her, their loathing of her, their hatred that she doubted would even disappear with her own, now years-long, disappearance from British Wizarding society. No matter what she did, she doubted she would ever be accepted back. She shook herself of those thoughts and sucked a corner of her lip inward and chewed on it, still watching a woman she could never forget.

Years later, she would still not entirely understand what exactly had driven her to take one of the empty seats beside Hermione Granger-Weasley that evening. All she could surmise was that it might have had something to do with the whiskey she had downed, something to do with a maddening curiosity, and something entirely indescribable. But she made the decision and she cleared her throat before ordering two shots of a different type of Muggle whiskey, passing one wordlessly to the witch who sat beside her. It was only as the Muggle-born witch dropped her gaze and found something new that she raised her eyes and turned to notice another person had taken the seat next to her.

Ah, and _there_ was that harsh gasp, followed by her… maiden name?

“It isn’t poisoned, Miss Granger,” she remarked coolly, in sharp contrast to her thundering heartbeat and sweating palms. “And you have my gratitude for remembering that I am no longer married,” Narcissa continued, steadily meeting the younger woman’s widened brown eyes.

She watched as Hermione spluttered out something that distinctly sounded like disbelief in finding her here of all places.

“I could say the same to you,” she ventured, “considering your… relationship with the youngest Mr Weasley.” Merlin was she glad that she could hold her alcohol rather well, but this conversation… this _woman_ before her was testing her in more ways than one. Though it was sufficiently evident that Hermione could not hold her own alcohol well, there was something about her that was oddly… No, no she could not go there. Simply because she was in a Muggle bar for lesbians and bisexual women did not mean that any and every woman (or _witch_ , her mind unhelpfully supplied) was on the table for her to ogle and consider, especially not one she had such a wretched history with. She needed to get her head on straight. Also, if she was correct… Hermione was almost an entire year older than her son, so she would be… about or right at twenty-eight now? Granted, the difference did not matter in their own society, the difference was not all that _visible_ in the Muggle world, but she was still a peer of her son’s. It couldn’t— and then there was the manor, and—

“My relationship with Ron,” Hermione hiccoughed, “doesn’t mean I’m _straight_ , Ms,” another hiccough, “Ms Black. And it’s… it’s bloody _failing_ , anyhow. Getting divorced, because I won’t— _can’t_ , oh Merlin, why am I—” The witch flushed heavily and shot up from her seat, ambling unsteadily towards the nearby loo. Narcissa pressed her lips together, watching as Hermione had some trouble pulling the door open before disappearing inside. She _should_ leave this place, _should_ leave the Ministry to deal with any breaking of the Statute that Hermione might unintentionally commit in her current inebriated state.

She couldn’t, though. Some niggling part of her mind wouldn’t _let_ her.

With a thoroughly frustrated noise, she slammed back the shot and added the two to her tab before pushing off from the seat and heading towards the bathroom. It was there that she found a Muggle woman trying to console a tearful Hermione, though when Narcissa entered the woman turned to her as if asking if she _knew_ her, and she couldn’t just— she sighed forlornly, nodded. The woman flashed her a weary grin, shook her head, and muttered as she walked by, “Hope _Merlin_ ’s the name of someplace, otherwise… love, your hands might truly be full with her.”

Oh and wasn’t she right, if only for part of the sentence. Once the woman was gone, Narcissa quickly checked the bathroom for any other people before casting a Muggle-repellant on the door; there was, at least, another open restroom on the premises, so she didn’t feel that terrible about it. Hermione, during all of this, had backed up against the far wall of the restroom and lowered herself to the floor, pulling her knees up against her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs. This— this was not the Miss Granger she remembered at all from her Wizenmagot trial, and something rather unfamiliar tugged at her heart. So unfamiliar that she wasn’t sure she had quite felt it like this before, because even though she had felt for her son and what Lucius (and herself, by proxy) had put him through, this was… different. Viscerally so.

“Miss Granger…” she began quietly, kneeling down but refraining from letting anything but her short heels rest upon the floor. “You cannot be around Muggles in this state, you have already let slip the name of an Unforgivable and mentioned Merlin twice.” Tentatively, she reached out and lightly touched Hermione’s upper arm. The woman before her flinched and raised her head, almost dull brown eyes looking at her quizzically for a moment before transforming into such sorrow that it managed to claw into Narcissa’s chest.

Slowly, Hermione half-slurred, “Why… Why’d you bring up _Ron_? Why did you—” she shuddered and squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking from them. Narcissa blinked myopically at Hermione, trying to piece together what little puzzle pieces of information she’d managed to glean over their short conversation. The couple was getting divorced, a failing relationship, because Hermione couldn’t… couldn’t what? Hermione seemed to be blaming herself for whatever was going wrong with her marriage. It bristled at Narcissa’s skin, seeing any witch try to place fault only on herself. Of course in certain situations, it was the wife’s fault, but she couldn’t see that being the case for _Hermione Granger_. And then there was the fact that for too long Narcissa had done that with her own marriage, wholly blaming herself needlessly.

“I apologise, Miss Granger,” Narcissa stated carefully, slowly. She ran her hand down over Hermione’s arm and applied light pressure to it. “But you must go home. It isn’t good for you to stay here and continue as you were, for the sake of the Statute of Secrecy. Come,” she put emphasis on the word, tugging at Hermione’s forearm as she tried to stand. The younger witch only shook her head a few times, though, and fresh tears escaped from her eyes.

Trying to make out Hermione's stammering, she finally managed to hear her say that she _couldn’t_ go home. “Not right now, not like…” Narcissa furrowed her brow and tried to think of where else the woman could go— if this was concerning Mr Weasley, the Burrow was not an option. She was not entirely sure who else Hermione was close enough to to pop in on such short notice until suddenly, Harry Potter’s face swam to the forefront of her mind.

“What of Mr Potter’s residence? Does he still live in Godric’s Hollow?” She recalled Draco telling her about the Potters, Harry and Ginevra, and how they had renovated James and Lily’s cottage, making that into their own home.

Hermione blinked and met her eyes. “I— he does. _They_ do.”

“And are you still friends with both of them?”

A moment’s hesitation, then, “Yes?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. This was not what she had come here for, but she couldn’t simply _leave_ Hermione here. Narcissa told herself that it was _only_ to prevent the witch before her from becoming front-page news of the next issue of the Daily Prophet. But something else, that same unfamiliar tugging at her heart, rang differently as she took in the splotchy cheeks, reddened eyes, and yet still somehow put together Hermione Granger-Weasley. She took in the casual Muggle attire Hermione had put on— the denim skinny jeans, the somewhat loose and horizontally striped maroon-and-navy jumper combined with what she swore was dragon-hide boots— and rid herself of any other wayward thought process about actually _caring_ for Hermione and focused on safely transporting her to Godric’s Hollow.

Rising to her feet, she finally tugged Hermione up alongside her and caught the witch in her arms, steadying her as she stumbled.

“M’sorry,” a hoarse voice uttered next to her ear. “Think I did... drink too much.”

“It’s a good thing I can apparate us both to Godric’s Hollow, then.”

So much for taking a woman back home with her tonight. After removing the Muggle-repellant, she helped Hermione out of the bar, stopping only to take care of her tab. Her arm was interlocked with one of Hermione’s, and she led them to a safe apparition point, trying to not notice how warm and surprisingly pleasant Hermione’s body felt as it every so often bumped against hers. The witch was drunk, and Narcissa knew she would never see her again after this because she was certain Hermione would find out and be absolutely mortified.

When they arrived in an alley at Godric’s Hollow, she saw the signs and swiftly led Hermione towards a brick wall, intending on turning away and doing her best to ignore the sounds of vomiting, but that damned tug against her heart instead had her bending down behind Hermione and holding her hair back for her as she emptied the contents of her stomach onto the ground. Alcohol and apparition never played well together, but there had been no Floo access— which in itself did not go particularly well with alcohol, either— and she still wasn’t all that fond of Muggle modes of transportation even after all these years.

After two minutes passed without any more retching, Narcissa patted one of Hermione’s shoulders. “Better now?”

“Mhmm,” came the weak reply. “M’tired, though.”

“Of course you are.” She held back a sigh, wondering again why she was truly doing this. It wasn’t her business, after all, Hermione Granger-Weasley’s life and affairs. Perhaps she felt she needed to do something because of their past, but she had never felt such an inclination before towards all of the other people she had acted nothing but rude towards when living in Wizarding society. She grit her teeth and cast away her meandering thoughts, again pulling Hermione up and helping her make her way to the Potters’ residence.

Once they arrived— it had taken longer than Narcissa had counted on, but she had only been to Godric’s Hollow scarce few times— she held onto Hermione’s arm with her own and knocked on the front door, casting a glance towards the younger witch out of the corner of her eye. She still looked a mess, but it would do her no good to attempt cleaning her up now. She needed that type of care from her friends, who would hopefully know how to better handle this than she did.

After a couple of minutes the door opened and revealed Ginevra Weasley in a plush night robe rubbing at one of her eyes, a yawn escaping her until she fully came to and gasped, eyes darting between Narcissa and Hermione.

“I— What’s happened to her?” There was no accusing tone directed at Narcissa, only concern for the Muggle-born witch between them. Narcissa took a deep breath, releasing it through her nostrils slowly.

Regrettably, she had to say that she wasn’t entirely sure. “I offered to take her home, but she said she couldn’t, then followed up with, ‘not right now, not like,’ I presume, as she is now. I did pick up on a few things during our short conversation, but it is… not for me to say. Perhaps tomorrow she can explain herself to the two of you.” She gingerly transferred Hermione over into Ginevra’s hold, meeting the red-headed witch’s gaze for a moment before she gave a nod of acknowledgement and turned around, intending to find a safe place to disapparate from. But before she could, a hand reached out and took hold of her wrist, applying gentle pressure. She turned her torso back towards the doorway to the Potters’ home and looked between Ginevra’s face and the freckled hand grasping her pale wrist.

“Thank you, Ms Black. For bringing her here. Harry would love to—”

Narcissa shook her head. “I do not wish to intrude any further. Goodbye, Mrs Potter.” And she shook her wrist loose, disapparating instead from where she stood.

* * *

The bar was slightly more frequented several Thursdays later, and Narcissa was certain she would take the woman within her arms home after a few more songs, a few more dances, and perhaps another drink or two. Her name was Elizabeth and she was a university professor in nearby Exeter. Leaning in as they danced to a slightly slower song than before, Narcissa took in a measured, steadying breath, her right hand moving towards the small of the professor’s back while her left was snugly secured within Elizabeth’s. She had found all manner of reasons as to why she continued coming to this same bar on Thursdays, all manner except for the one thrumming mercilessly in the back of her mind.

A kiss was pressed towards the base of her neck as their steps slowed and she opened her eyes to the low lit scene around them. Truly, she needed to move past this bar; its capacity as a useful distraction from herself was waning rather rapidly, and though she should have already formed and articulated the words that would lead to another one-night stand in her home, nothing would come forth from her mouth except for breaths meant to keep her in the here and now. This woman, Elizabeth— Narcissa acutely realised that she deserved better than her. She was here on a Thursday evening, and she needed a woman who could give her what she desired, which wasn’t what Narcissa could offer.

Mobile phones were a lifesaver, and she pretended hers was vibrating with an incoming call in order to escape from the Muggle professor. Narcissa exited the bar, went around a nearby corner and took several minutes to compose herself, wondering how in the world she could go back in and not come into contact with Elizabeth again; that is until she heard the woman’s voice call her name. Thankful for her quick thinking, she cast on herself so Elizabeth wouldn’t find her in this alley, decidedly _not_ taking a call. The disappointment on the Muggle woman’s face was palpable, but she heard enough that she knew she could safely go back in; Elizabeth was heading home alone.

Her body ached again for another’s touch and she intended to get it. It didn’t matter what her heart wanted, only her skin needed answered gratification. The music pulled her towards the open floor once more and she searched the area for anyone who appealed when her maiden name called out by an alarmingly familiar voice drew her attention towards her left side. She turned, her lips parting as she saw Hermione Granger-Weasley sitting in the back booth, _her_ back booth, one empty wine glass sitting in front of her. A tanned forefinger trailed around the rim, and without conscious thought Narcissa found herself sliding into the seat across from Hermione. Her heart constricted as Hermione smiled ruefully, and going completely against her better judgment, she reached out and placed her hand atop Hermione’s after the younger witch apologised for her so-called “wretched behaviour” several Thursday evenings prior.

“There is no need to apologise, Miss Granger. I only did…” she swallowed, torn between speaking the half-truth in her and the blatant yet well-meaning excuse she had made up to make herself feel better. “I only did what one woman would do for another when in that sort of state. You needed to get somewhere safe. It was no trouble.”

Hermione shot her a small grin, lowering her voice so no one else would hear. “Didn’t help that I was about to break the Statute of Secrecy without any hope of salvaging myself, right?”

“Oh, you…” she pulled her hand back towards the edge of her side of the table and turned her head away, abhorring the heat she felt blossoming on her cheeks.

“Harry and Ginny have their own…” she didn’t need to finish, Narcissa knew. “I saw them, however hazy they were, the next day after sobering up properly.” Of course, the Potters would have the money for a full Pensieve that others could simply drop in and use. A hand came over to rest on part of hers and she turned her head back, dropping her gaze to watch as Hermione’s thumb moved over her knuckles. She barely fought back a tremble at the contact. “Despite the haze, I made out enough, Ms Black. You could have left me here for the… relevant officials to take care of. But you didn’t. Thank you for that.”

Narcissa sniffed and licked at her lips, trying to deny the growing tightness in her chest at being _thanked_ by the woman she hadn’t done anything for all those years ago. “It was the least I could do, Miss Granger. You of all people do not at all deserve your personal life and affairs aired out to the entirety of…” she trailed off, still keenly aware of where they were and the vital importance of word choice. The songs were no longer loud, but slowing and softer, and she cast her eyes upwards, wishing she could simply go home before she did something entirely stupid and—

“I feel I at least owe you a dance, Ms Black,” Hermione’s surprisingly warm voice came, and Narcissa shivered at the teasing flirtatiousness that came across clear as the shining sun on the hottest summer day. She lowered her gaze towards Hermione and flitted her eyes between the hand still on her own and the brown eyes that were so utterly captivating her with their sheer honesty. Hermione was dressed in something that skirted the line between Wizarding and Muggle fashion: deep burgundy robes that could be mistaken for a long tailored Muggle coat, and she could tell in the flickers of brighter light from the domed lamp above them that those knee-high boots, one of them sticking slightly out from under the table, were made of dragon-hide. There was no mistaking it to her discerning eye, and she couldn’t keep back her chuckle, shaking her head as temptation won out with the aid of liquid courage so sorely needed. Dancing with Hermione Granger, the most well-known Muggle-born in all of British Wizarding society, in a Muggle bar for women seeking other women. Everything had gone topsy-turvy.

She gave Hermione a dazzling smile. “How can I say no to a dance?”

Hermione’s face lit up and Narcissa took her hand, following her onto the floor to join several other couples. A wave of unease flooded her as she became keenly aware that she hadn’t thought of the mood and tempo that the song choices had progressively headed in; while she enjoyed somewhat slow dances, the woman in front of her, her hand extended once again, was not another Muggle that she could easily rid herself of, whom she had absolutely no history with. This was Hermione Granger, and she shouldn’t have agreed to this. She shouldn’t have, but she also couldn’t watch Hermione’s face falter and be responsible for a downturn in her mood.

Narcissa swallowed around the growing lump in her throat and took Hermione’s hand, surprise hitting her in the next instant as she was pulled almost flush against the younger woman. Something thudded against her normally closed-off heart, yearning for release while her skin buzzed with newfound, burning want for the beautiful woman beginning to lead them into a slow dance, the soft melodic instrumental surrounding them winding around her like an intimate embrace. This wasn’t music meant for one-night stands, wasn’t _meant_ for why she came to this bar. She’d almost always avoided falling into dances while these types of songs played, instead choosing to excuse herself if they came on.

But she couldn’t remove herself from Hermione, who somehow had her wrapped around her finger. She was so used to the opposite when it came to Muggle women that she wondered vaguely if Hermione was using her magic to accomplish this, but she sensed no magic around them beyond the inherent undercurrent that always lay beneath a witch’s or wizard’s skin.

“I must admit I’m surprised you haven’t asked me to properly explain what happened that led to my behaviour that night,” Hermione murmured, one of her hands running down Narcissa’s side, resting in the dip of her waistline.

She tutted. “I am no Rita Skeeter, Miss Granger.”

“Oh, I,” Hermione blushed, “I didn’t mean it that way, I’m sorry.”

“Of course I have wondered,” Narcissa admitted, avoiding Hermione’s eyes as she spoke, “but know it isn’t my place to ask.”

The corners of Hermione’s lips tugged into a small smile. “Let me help put that wondering to rest, then. Because of where you took me that night, I… had to explain everything to Ginny and Harry the next morning, and they…” she noticed Hermione’s breath catching and subtly tightened her hold on Hermione’s upper arm and hip. “They listened, and they… they support my divorce. From Ron. It’ll be official in a week because it’s gone uncontested. We finally,” she laughed weakly, “ _finally_ could agree on things at the end, how everything will be divided. Guess in this sense, we’re… fortunate there are no children to debate over rights. Then again, if we had—”

Narcissa stopped a second after Hermione’s steps faltered and she looked into Hermione’s face, how she was fighting to keep it from crumbling. “Miss Granger?” Ignoring the rational portion of her mind, she reached up and gingerly cupped the other witch’s cheek, thumb swiping over smooth, faintly freckled skin. Hermione lifted her gaze and shook her head, removing herself from Narcissa. The sudden lack of physical contact left Narcissa feeling empty, out of her comfort zone on this open floor, but she gathered her wits about her in time to follow Hermione out of the front door.

“Hermione!” she called out, forgetting her propriety. Hurrying to catch up before she lost her to a crack of apparition, Narcissa took hold of one of Hermione’s wrists just as she turned the corner into a nearby alleyway. Hermione spun halfway around, glancing down at the wrist Narcissa was still holding onto. “Hermione, I—”

“It’s— it’s still hard to talk about _why_.” Hermione’s voice was low, cracked, and full of pain that shot through Narcissa’s heart. “I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this, I haven’t seen you in years, but…” Brown eyes looked up at her, disarmingly vulnerable and open as she continued, “You seem so _different_. Your Muggle clothes, how you willingly took care of me that evening, and maybe it’s because you’re somewhere between a stranger and someone familiar that it’s… easy for things to spill out. But it’s none of your concern, and I shouldn’t be offloading any of this on—”

“I don’t mind,” Narcissa found herself confessing, her mouth betraying the thundering emotions she had been trying her utmost to keep at bay. “I— I presume that I am different, in some ways. A Slytherin adapts to their surroundings. My son has adapted almost alarmingly well to France. But I digress; I don’t mind, truly. I was,” she pressed her lips together, “I was the one who upset you in the first place, and I—”

Hermione expelled a sharp breath. “No. No, that was my… that was Ron. He,” she cast a look around them, then back at Narcissa. She felt intimately surveyed by Hermione and it stole any words she could offer. “Take my arm? Please?” And how could she say no to such a thing? Her mouth dry as parchment, all Narcissa could do was mutely nod and take hold of the outstretched arm Hermione offered. In an instant, the familiar, nausea-inducing tug behind her navel signalled side-along apparition.

Taking a few moments to re-orient herself and settle her stomach, Narcissa scanned new surroundings. They were in a sparsely decorated flat, with the only main furnishings added being a small kitchen table and a few chairs, a sofa, a television on a stand, a bookcase halfway filled, and some photographs— a mixture of Wizarding and Muggle. Several boxes were piled up in neat stacks around the rest of the area, and a small hallway surely led to an adjoining bedroom and bathroom. The walls were still barren.

“Sorry for the mess,” Hermione said, and it was only then that Narcissa noticed that she was standing almost stock still while Hermione had already sat down on the sofa. “If you’d rather go somewhere else, or leave…”

“No, no,” she rushed out, still trying to comprehend that Hermione had willingly brought her to her flat, “I merely… was taking everything in. Have you only recently moved?” She took the seat next to Hermione on the small sofa and tried to read some of the titles on the spines of some books on the shelves next to the television but with no luck.

The rustling of denim drew Narcissa’s attention away from the bookcase and back to Hermione who had pulled her legs up onto the cushion, idly running a finger down the outer seam of her jeans. “Only a few days ago. The home with Ron was mostly his anyway, decorated with things he liked. I didn’t truly realise until a few weeks ago that there wasn’t much of… me? In our place? My office at Hogwarts Preparatory has more of me in it than my old home did.” Her chuckle that followed was so hollow that it felt cavernous, gaping.

Narcissa wasn't sure if she should say anything yet, but she placed a hand on one of Hermione’s knees to let her know she was still listening, still here. And perhaps, if she was lucky enough, it would aid in grounding Hermione. She gave the knee a light squeeze, hopefully reassuring.

Hermione lifted her head, turning it just enough to make eye contact with her. One of her hands reached up to run shakily through her brown curls. “I can’t have children.” Her voice broke as she said the words, but she continued. Narcissa’s heart lurched in her chest at the sudden admission. “Ron and I, we tried. Several times. After three years, one and a half of those spent meticulously trying to conceive, we finally turned,” Hermione cleared her throat and sniffled, wiping at eyes that were filled with tears. “We turned to professional magical intervention, but it— it didn’t take either. They ran tests, tests, so many _bloody_ tests. On Ron, too, to make sure. But it was— it was me. I was cursed by Dolohov,” Narcissa squeezed Hermione’s knee again, rubbing with her thumb, “in my fifth year. Thought it only affected part of a lung and my left rib cage. That was what I was treated for by Madam Pomfrey, though they gave general pain potions which must have… masked the other damage.”

She heard a hollow chuckle, then Hermione continued, “They never thought to take me to St. Mungo’s back then, and I was too addled to notice. To ask for it. It seems Dolohov was able to make another jerky movement with his wand, a bit further down, after I’d fallen unconscious. No one can remember that far back now. But the— the trace magic still lingering around me there, it’s that curse. So I, I can’t give Ron the children he— he wants, and—”

A soft sob came from Hermione then and Narcissa removed her hand from the other witch’s knee, disregarding that they were not friends, that perhaps she shouldn’t be doing this, that maybe Hermione wouldn’t appreciate _her_ reaching out in such a way. She moved right next to her, pulling the younger witch against her chest, making soothing motions with her hands on Hermione’s back and through her hair. Her emotions were in conflict between utter revulsion towards Ronald Weasley and an almost shocking amount of empathy and care for Hermione. She had comforted friends in the past after miscarriages and stillbirths but never had she felt this degree of emotion in those past situations.

After several minutes of holding and rocking Hermione in her arms, murmuring words of comfort that she hoped actually _were_ of some comfort, the weight against her body pulled away and Hermione sheepishly looked up at her, some words on her lips that were surely an apology. Before she could utter them, Narcissa pressed a forefinger against pink lips.

“If that is an apology, it is not needed in any shape or form.” Pulling her finger away, she moved her hand up to stroke Hermione’s hair. “Anyone who only wants you for your womb is no one worth having by your side. Granted,” she felt her lips twitch, “this coming from a pure-blood who was essentially seen as a ‘pure’ broodmare might not be terribly reassuring, but,” she looked past Hermione for a moment, “I only speak the truth. We are more than that, so much more, though I am… unfortunately, not surprised that a pure-blood, Weasley or not, would place so much emphasis on biological children. Even though they were ahead of the rest of us on matters of blood status and how silly and outright damaging it was.”

Hermione sniffled, placing a thumb underneath her lower lip. “I… I did try to talk to him about adoption, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He said a Weasley had never adopted in the past, and he— he wasn’t going to be the first. And…” Hermione shuddered in her hold, “And he said I was mad for even suggesting we go childless, even after I _thought_ we spoke of the possibility before our engagement. As if he doesn’t already have several more siblings to carry on the Weasley name, like,” she started crying again, stammering out her words, “like I’m— I’m not _enough_ for him. He’s not the…”

Pulling Hermione back to her body, she felt tears against the side of her neck trailing down over her collarbone, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t looking for this, for _Hermione Granger_ , when she started going to that bar, but she was glad that she had found her. Immeasurably thankful, because if she could serve as some point of help? It didn’t only aid the woman she held, but it eased her heart more than anything had in years. She rubbed Hermione’s back, waiting patiently for tears to dry up. And she had never considered herself that patient of a woman in the first place.

Instead of any sort of attempt at an apology, Hermione simply uttered a word of thanks as she tucked stray strands of hair that had fallen into her face behind one of her ears. “I… you aren’t the Narcissa Malfoy I remember.” Her eyes widened by a fraction, and Hermione squeaked, backing away from her. “Oh! I didn’t mean for it to come out like that! I’m so sorry. I just, oh, Merlin…”

Narcissa raised one of her eyebrows and breathed out a small chuckle. “That may be because I am no longer Narcissa Malfoy, dear. As you well know from calling me Ms Black, which, I must say you are more than welcome to call me by my first name.”

“After all this,” Hermione laughed a little more brightly, “I would hope so. I think I may owe you a little more than a dance now, Narcissa.” After a moment’s hesitation, she caught Hermione’s eyes again as the younger witch went on, asking, “What would you say to a spot of dinner next Thursday and a trip to the bar after?”

“I would say that I would appreciate that very much, but,” Narcissa stood from the sofa, reaching a hand out for Hermione to take hold of, “not because you owe me anything.” Hermione took hold of her hand and she pulled her up, squeezing it after. “I want to, and that is reason enough. We can exchange owls in a few days to arrange the details?”

Hermione smiled and Narcissa noted that the colour was returning to the younger witch’s face again as redness brought on by her tears disappeared. “Of course. That sounds wonderful.”


	2. Chapter 2

A thoroughly aggrieved hoot pulled Narcissa from her almost frenzied state of double- and triple-checking the condition of her home. Casting a glare in the owl’s direction, she reminded Faust with her fingers that her wand would vibrate thrice when it was time for his feeding, and that no, she still had it on— oh no. She frowned as she felt around desperately for her wand, finding it nowhere on her person and certainly not in the holster she typically kept it in on her outer left thigh. After casting a wandless _accio_ , her wand flew out of her bedroom and landed in her left hand; she jerked her head to the right and pointed an accusing finger at the indignant owl. “Do not even _think_ of making another sound.”

To anyone else she knew she’d appear mad as a hatter, especially to her Muggle neighbours. But she was aware that her owl understood her as all owls came to understand their owners after a period of time. Narcissa knew now, without Faust making another noise, that she owed him his evening meal as her wand informed with a short series of vibrations that she was… half an hour late to do so.

“Complaining about such a short delay, you are,” she admonished the creature as she tossed a thawed mouse towards him, going back to her look around the house after she finished giving Faust a few more thawed out mice to eat. She vaguely heard the flutter of wings as he flew out a window that joined the house to the aviary she had built and charmed so that Muggles had no idea that she even owned an owl, lest she receive a much-loathed visit from Ministerial employees, who she could happily go the rest of her life without encountering again.

The only particular worrying bit about being half an hour late for feeding Faust was that she now only had thirty minutes at most before Hermione would arrive at her door. She had tried to talk herself into cancelling with the other witch, but when Hermione’s owl arrived with a letter inquiring as to whether lunch or supper made more sense, she had traced some of the meticulous cursive writing and knew in her thawing heart that if she had been serious about not continuing this— whatever it was— with Hermione, she could have easily turned her down gently the previous Thursday.

Some part of her, though, deeply wanted to continue whatever _this_ was with Hermione. She had gone so long without any contact with Wizarding society besides her older sister as well as letters and occasional visits from her son and daughter-in-law that she tried to convince herself it was only an overeagerness for companionship with someone magical who _wasn’t_ related to her by blood in some manner. But despite how much she missed Wizarding society, she knew it wasn’t only that that drew her to inviting Hermione around. And she hadn’t even needed to invite her _here_. Initially, Hermione had suggested she come to her new flat for their meal, which would be easier to handle if she developed cold feet— the memories would not be ever-present in her own home but somewhere else entirely.

Yet, again, she had gone against her better judgment and welcomed, nigh _insisted_ that Hermione come to her home, that she couldn’t impose on her like that. Honestly, she still wondered what exactly was going on in Hermione’s mind. Why she would want to associate with a woman who watched her be tortured by one of her sisters; a woman who had married a man who became not only a Death Eater but part of Tom Riddle’s inner circle; and a woman, a _witch_ , who had disappeared from Wizarding society because she was clearly no longer welcomed there. It made no logical sense, yet she remembered Hermione’s words of how she seemed “so different.” Though she had, to some effect, agreed at the time, she was truly not sure if she _was_ all that different. She had run when things grew too unbearable, just like the Slytherin she was. Like she always had been.

The tinkling sound of the doorbell wrested her from her thoughts. With what was supposed to be a steadying series of breaths, Narcissa put a stasis spell over their food and opened the door, her eyes roaming over Hermione’s figure before faintly clearing her throat and inviting her inside. Her guest was dressed as if they weren’t anywhere near Muggles, and though she admittedly looked gorgeous in her deep blue robes complemented by a blouse beneath an open front tunic, tied together by a belted sash, as well dark grey fitted trousers and those same dragon-hide boots… The robes at the very _least_ weren’t going to pass for a Muggle coat of any fashion.

“I transfigure some of my clothes when around Muggles,” Hermione stated, and Narcissa realised far too late that she had been staring. Rather critically, apparently. She coughed self-consciously, something she hardly ever did, and fought back any further sign that would surely key Hermione in as to how highly-strung out she currently was.

Glancing down at her own clothing, Narcissa smoothed part of her pale blue Oxford shirt out. “A far step from what many other wizards and witches do; I made a fool of myself many times during my first several months in the Muggle world.” Giving a soft, almost self-deprecating laugh, she ventured, “I do hope that I dress a sight better now.” Hermione clicked her tongue and met her eyes.

“Muggles would certainly not refrain from telling you if so, Narcissa. Or at least let you know with their actions.” Heat ran up her neck as Hermione surveyed her and then shot her a smile. “And as the daughter of two of them, you’re doing fine. Those jeans, for instance, go well with that button-down.” Narcissa blinked, wondering if she was seeing things or if Hermione’s eyes had lingered on certain areas of her body as she appraised her attire. She chastised herself and pulled on the hemline of her long-sleeved shirt before directing Hermione to the kitchen table, returning to take the stasis spell off their food.

The small talk grew rather agonising, but she was in no way prepared _nor_ inebriated enough to broach the topics bouncing around in her mind, even with their razor-sharp edges searing her otherwise impeccable comprehension. Hermione, she found out, worked at that Hogwarts Preparatory she hadn’t inquired further into before. It was a relatively new educational institution for magical children aged eight to ten years old, to aid in academic and social preparation before they were sent away to Hogwarts. It wasn’t until she asked the same question twice, the second time on some sort of auto-pilot towards the end of their meal, that Hermione narrowed her eyes in concern.

“Narcissa?” Her name drew her full attention and she took a moment to drink from her glass of water before glancing back into Hermione’s eyes. “Are you all right?”

She set her glass back onto the table. “Of course I am. Why,” she couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it, her mind now unable to keep back the raging emotions within her, “here I sit, eating with a witch I was never kind to before several weeks ago, as if we’re old friends instead of—” she took a ragged breath, “Of course I’m fine. I should be asking _you_ how you are seemingly all right with this situation, Hermione.” Narcissa winced at the truth that had spilled from her lips so easily. What ever had become of her restraint? Had living in the Muggle world for several years caused her to lose her touch that had served her so well during both wars and the uncertain times between?

“It’s been years, Narcissa,” Hermione began softly, setting down her fork, “ _Years_. I’m nearing thirty, I’ve had time, and though I’ll never be the same witch I was before Harry, Ron, and I went on that…”—she chuckled as she formed air quotes—“ _extended camping trip_ in ‘97 and ‘98, I’m better. Most of the time. I—” There was a rustle of fabric, and Narcissa’s eyes flicked over to the skin Hermione revealed on the inside of her left forearm. Where her eldest sister had carved into Hermione nearly ten years ago. With a sharp intake of breath, she furrowed her brows at the expanse of skin because… it was unmarred. So smooth, actually, that she had to wrestle back a temptation to reach out and touch it. “Andromeda broke the curse and healed it in 2001. Are you not in touch with her?”

Narcissa felt sudden tears gather at the edges of her eyelids. “I am, but… I never brought up that day with her.” Sharp eyes peered up at Hermione. “Are you— does she know the entirety of what happened that day? That I—” But she couldn’t finish. She pushed back from the table, glad at least that they had both essentially finished their food, only leaving perhaps a fifth of it on their plates if that.

“Andy must have… not wanted to bring it up with you,” Hermione muttered. “She knows everything about that day.”

She felt herself deflate as she put her dishes into the sink after clearing the remaining crumbs into the rubbish bin. “It’s even more of a wonder that she spoke to me at all after the war, then.”

Hermione’s chair scraped heavily against the flooring. Shutting her eyes, Narcissa fully expected everything to fall apart now. She had so carefully removed herself from Wizarding society for more than one reason. Why had she ever gone over to speak with Hermione Granger of all witches? She should have left her to her own devices, even though the mere thought of doing so pierced her heart like a freshly whetted knife.

A hand coming to rest between her shoulder blades startled her. Her fingers gripped the edge of a plate in the sink as water poured from the faucet, and she hated how she craved the warm touch. Wanted it to stay.

“An imprinted memory was within the curse. She…” Hermione paused, and her voice grew low, “It would make sense, considering I didn’t understand it until then. But, still— did you not notice what you did to help me? Andromeda saw it for what it was because it was something you used to do to help her and your… other sister, as children she told me. Used your—”

“Legilimency,” Narcissa breathed out, letting the plate softly clatter against the bottom of the sink as she removed her fingers, shut the water off, and turned around to face Hermione, her backside pressed against the edge of the countertop. “I…” but she choked on her words, searching for the answer in Hermione’s face, not even an arm’s length between them. Hermione’s arm had fallen back to her side and Narcissa watched as she gave a small nod.

“You coated my mind, soothed the _Cruciatus_. Prevented it from driving me insane, because from what Andy saw, it should have. Considering… how long and how intensely it was cast.” Hermione shuddered, dipped her chin and looked towards some nondescript patch of flooring. With a shaky breath, Narcissa scoured her memories of that day, something she always did her best to avoid, but she… there had been _something_ , but she hadn’t even realised it for what it was, hadn’t outright meant to… but. She had. Reached out, that was. Instinctively.

It’d been there along but she hadn’t allowed herself to truly see it for what it was. She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed out slowly, hardly reacting as a hand came to rest upon her upper arm. When it applied pressure, though, she cracked her eyes open and was met with the softened gaze of someone she never expected to have in her own house. Someone lightening the load on her heart with this information, someone so…

Narcissa brought her hands up to her eyes and wiped at the wetness surrounding them, forgetting about charmed handkerchiefs entirely in the moment. Hermione rubbed her arm with her hand. “I can’t believe Andromeda didn’t bring it up with me,” Narcissa murmured.

“She probably thought you knew what you did and didn’t want to bring up the memory of it, as it was still a… terrible day,” Hermione suggested. “Though it is… intriguing, that so far Legilimency hasn't been brought up as a way to perhaps soothe curses that affect the mind. As clearly in the right hands,” Hermione peered up at her, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips, “it can be used for good.”

Shaking her head in some kind of disbelief, Narcissa patted Hermione’s shoulder while her other hand grasped the younger witch’s arm. “That still doesn’t excuse what I… didn’t do. It doesn’t make me a— a good person, Hermione.”

“And what does that matter, Narcissa? None of us is completely good, faultless. Not even the famed _Harry Potter_. But,” and she was pulled into Hermione’s arms without pretence, “your actions, especially recent ones, speak far better to the woman you are now. And I appreciate that woman and would _very_ much like to take her out on something akin to a proper date to that bar… if she would so allow?”

“A— a date?” Narcissa asked incredulously, peeling away from Hermione’s hold to look her in the eye. “But you just…” she faltered, waving a hand slightly in the air.

“Were recently divorced?” Hermione chuckled, averting her eyes for a second. “I think… in my mind, I’ve already _been_ separated from Ron for ages. It was… mechanical, unfeeling. I deprived myself for so bloody long, and… and the Prophet, do you not receive it?”

“Only the Saturday edition, addressed to a false name,” she admitted. “The goblins at Gringotts were almost surprisingly accommodating several years ago.” Hermione’s cheeks were suddenly painted in a rich flush, and Narcissa tilted her head slightly to the side at the sight, wondering what— _oh_ , Hermione had been part of that break-in back in 1998. She vaguely recalled the scandal around it after the war ended.

“Oh, well,” Hermione said, slowly gaining composure again, “Er, Ron’s already been out with at least one witch, so I thought… Why should I deprive myself? That is, if you— if I read any of this right. Or perhaps I was too into my own head again these past several weeks and misread everything and oh gosh, I’m so—” Rolling her eyes, Narcissa pressed the palm of her hand over Hermione’s mouth and watched as brown eyes widened.

“Do cease your rambling, please,” she firmly intoned, taking her hand off. “You did not misread anything. I do not go to that bar for friendship… though perhaps…” her eyes momentarily glazed over.

“Perhaps you should have?” Hermione lightly laughed. “Muggle women can make good friends, and I’m sure you’ve built _something_ of a life here to speak about. But we can discuss that on our way to the bar if you’d like to walk instead of apparate?”

Well, she could use the exercise. At least that’s what she told herself when she agreed.

By the time they reached the bar, which came after an almost half-hour walk through several streets and a portion of one of the town parks, she and Hermione had entered into a debate of whether the current Minister for Magic should convene with the Muggle Minister on the matter of creating an educational programme or pathway for wizards and witches interested in Muggle careers. And she now had an intimate understanding of how _incredibly_ disingenuous it had apparently been of her to take advantage of Muggles to obtain her rather modest job as a librarian’s assistant.

“To reiterate, it is not as if I am a full-fledged _librarian_ , Hermione.”

“But still!” Hermione hissed out as they neared the entrance to the bar, “Muggles have to get GCSEs, go through college courses, apprenticeships and the like to get that role! And you just— just—” she gesticulated with her arms rather wildly, and Narcissa was _not_ a fan of what Hermione’s emphatic delivery, how riled up she was, did to her. Decidedly not a fan at all.

“Confunded my way in?” she drawled, pointedly ignoring the low heat building in her like faint flames coming to life. “Did you happen to mishear the part where I spent a year and a half volunteering first, perhaps? Seeking the knowledge I needed?”

Hermione spluttered and jabbed a finger towards Narcissa’s face. Narcissa tutted, and with a raise of her eyebrows took hold of the finger with one of her hands, gently pushing it and the hand it was attached to back down. Thankfully there was no one within the immediate vicinity who could overhear their conversation, and as she opened the door for Hermione the subject was thankfully dropped. For the time being, at least, because she had learned enough about Hermione Granger over the years to know that she didn’t simply let things such as this go so easily.

“You made the meal before coming here _and_ ever so graciously got the door for me when I could have gotten it myself, so I’ll pay you back by getting our drinks,” was what led to Narcissa sitting side-by-side in her booth with Hermione a few minutes later. This booth in the back—with its domed, flickering and semi-exposed light hanging above; its polished and rich teak wood table, the markings of age only giving it character; its Prussian blue cushioned seats—felt like home to her, even more so now with the younger witch at her side tossing back a couple of shots and nudging her to follow suit with a couple of her own. Her protestations did nothing in her favour considering it was shots that she’d gotten for Hermione and herself when she’d first come over to sit beside her a few months prior.

After tossing her own shots back to Hermione’s praise— which, Merlin’s bollocks, she thought she was _impervious_ to such words— she was halfway dragged, in her own mind, from the booth to the sparsely populated floor. Hermione’s cheeks were flushed and she was certain she looked about the same way as a hand snaked around her waistline and another took hold of her right wrist, sliding down to entwine their fingers.

Partway through a languid dance, Hermione pressed closer and rested the side of her head against Narcissa’s cheek. Her mind locked up and she would have _physically_ locked up as well if not for Hermione tugging her along slowly to the soft pulses of music emanating from the small stage. Her curls were so bloody soft against her skin and she squeezed her eyes shut at the sensation, tightening the grasp she had on Hermione’s shoulder, moving her hand down then up again in repetitive motions.

“I’ve been thinking of something,” the low whisper next to her ear made her tremble. “It’s kept me up at night sometimes over the past weeks, Narcissa.” She sucked in a breath at the light nip to her earlobe, hidden behind their hair but sending a shock straight through to her core. This was not the witch her son had so often complained about over a decade ago, and she wondered how much had truly changed in all these years, how much she had missed out on by leaving Wizarding society behind. She had certainly not been witness to Hermione Granger growing into herself in such an alluring yet forthright manner.

A hand slid down her waistline to rest on her hip, moving back to lightly apply pressure to her arse. Narcissa breathed out sharply through her nose, her teeth clenching for a moment before she released the strain on her jaw. “Come to the bathroom with me?” Hermione murmured the question, putting a slight distance between them, darkened eyes searching her face. Narcissa swallowed and mutely nodded. She was gently guided through the small crowd, hardly large enough to even be called a crowd, then led into the same loo she’d talked to Hermione in on the first night they met here.

Wholly expecting Hermione to enter a stall and relieve herself, Narcissa wondered why her hand was still held. She looked down, only to find the exposed tip of a wand peeking out from under one of Hermione’s sleeves, and scanning the area she noted one stall door shut and one woman at the sinks. Spotting an intense look of concentration on Hermione’s features, within five seconds the woman at the sinks shook her fingers of excess water before pulling a few paper towels from the dispenser and taking no time in drying then leaving the room without sparing them a second glance.

“Are you… _confunding_ these Muggles?” she whispered heatedly, pulling her hand from Hermione’s. “After chewing me out for the same?” Knitting her brows together, she flatly stated in a hushed tone, “Do at least tell me you aren’t going to cut off the other woman from relieving herself fully.”

Hermione turned to her with an incredulous look. “Of course not! I’m not barbaric.”

The moment the toilet flushed and the door to the stall opened, though, Narcissa witnessed the same look of concentration and subtle wand movement. A Muggle woman emerged for the stall, not once looking in their direction, and went through the same process of washing and drying her hands with no time spared for anything else in front of the mirror, then left the loo to the two of them as if they weren’t even there in the first place. Narcissa massaged her forehead and started to turn to ask exactly what Hermione’s plan was when her arm was taken hold of again.

Some sort of a cross between a yelp and a gasp fell from her lips as she was suddenly pulled into a stall, the door shutting and sliding into a locked position with what was certainly nonverbal magic. Pushed up against the door, she was met with a flushed face and slightly heaving chest, one of Hermione’s hands holding onto her arm while the other cupped her cheek— so hot to the touch, yet astonishingly tender the way fingers moved slowly across her skin. She leaned into Hermione’s hand, her eyes drifting to meet pupils defined by nothing else but sheer want. She was certain that hers told the same story.

“You— you took care of me here, that first night,” Hermione breathed out, their faces almost impossibly close. “The Muggle-repellant on the door won’t last forever, but,” her eyes trailed Hermione’s tongue as it ran across her front teeth. Narcissa recalled her charm and licked her lips, a smooth sensation sliding across the pink swell of flesh. “I would like to take care of you tonight.” And Hermione closed the minuscule distance between them, bringing their lips together. Narcissa responded embarrassingly quickly but couldn’t be bothered about it. _This_ is what she’d wanted to do ever since those first realisations had hit her after seeing Hermione for the first time in nearly a decade. Exactly this. She barely suppressed a whine when the kiss was abruptly broken.

“Let me do that for you,” Hermione whispered against her lips before pressing another soft kiss, “please?” Hips moved against her own and a needy whimper did escape her then, enough to allow Hermione’s tongue entrance into her mouth. Grasping at Hermione’s lower back with one hand, her other trailed up the back of Hermione’s neck to thread through the base of her curly hair, utterly undone by the next time they parted, their eyes meeting again.

“You— you don’t need to, to repay me for that evening,” Narcissa managed to get out in spite of the need growing to an almost all-consuming ache at the apex of her thighs. All it, as well as the fog in her brain and the heat gathered deep in her lower abdomen, wanted was everything Hermione was suggesting by way of her words and actions thus far. “I didn’t do it,” she groaned as Hermione kissed down her jaw and neck, “to get anything in return.”

Hermione chuckled against the heated skin near the hollow of her neck, her hands running over Narcissa’s arms, fingertips tantalisingly trailing down and making her shiver. “It’s not that I _need_ to, but that I _want_ to. If you,” Hermione tilted her head back, peering up at her, “do, too?”

Narcissa’s hips rocking against Hermione’s were answer enough, but she nodded as well and gripped Hermione’s hair tighter, the words, “Yes, I do,” spilling from her lips like an invocation. And without another word, Hermione reached down with both of her hands, unbuttoning and unzipping Narcissa’s jeans before lowering herself to the ground. The vague thought of hoping that Hermione had scourgified the floor passed by her consciousness half-finished, because the moment Hermione’s knees hit the ground, fingers pulled Narcissa’s jeans and knickers down past her knees, the sudden exposure of bare skin to air cold against her centre almost making her knees buckle.

Hermione, though, seemed to acutely sense the temporary loss of control and grabbed hold of Narcissa’s thighs with both of her hands, her thumbs moving around the skin in half-circles. Once she gathered even half of her wits about her again, Hermione’s right hand had moved upward and through half-lidded eyes, Narcissa watched as the thumb went past her sex and into trimmed blond hair above it. It rested there for a few moments, rubbing through the hair before disappearing from her sight. The moment her eyes couldn’t register any part of the digit, however, was the moment her sense of touch burst apart, leaving her mind reeling. A thumb rubbed at her aching, pulsating clit, and she moaned softly as other fingers explored inside of her folds, gathering the copious wetness that felt like much more and _sooner_ than in prior experiences with other partners.

She bit down on her tongue, tilting her head back and shutting her eyes as one finger breached her entrance. Hermione pressed forward slowly, ever so teasingly, and she opened her mouth, breaths coming heavy.

“You’re so _tight_ , Cissa,” Hermione’s hushed voice drifted up to her ears, and the shortened version of her name coming from the witch below only made her arousal grow and Hermione hummed in approval. “And so wet for me. Gods, I—”

There was a shuffling below her, and she barely opened her eyes in time to see Hermione pushing her face towards her crotch, flicking her gaze up for only a moment before—

She released a strangled cry as Hermione sucked her into her mouth and began to pleasure her with a rather adept tongue and deliriously repetitive motions that drew her closer and closer to a thunderous peak. Her head fell back against the stall door and she placed her trembling hands in Hermione’s hair, grasping and tugging almost in rhythm with the ministrations applied to her sex. Another finger entered her as soon as one stretched her and filled her to the knuckle. She groaned as Hermione curled both fingers and felt the acute loss of lips around her clit, but the sheen of arousal decorating Hermione’s lips and the area around them had Narcissa’s heart pounding in her chest.

“Absolutely beautiful,” she whispered down at Hermione, and she swore she saw a blush colour the younger witch’s cheeks before she shook her head and, “Oh, _Merlin_.” That tongue was divine against her throbbing clit. Two fingers stretched her even more, and when a third entered alongside she shuddered at how they filled her, how well Hermione pumped them, steadily increasing her speed. She _had_ to have had some other sort of experience beyond her ex-husband, had to have been with other women, and Narcissa tried to make a mental note to ask _where_ and _who_ and all manner of other questions but was interrupted by Hermione’s fingers repeatedly stroking against that spongy spot right inside of her entrance, and she felt herself building, building, _building_ towards that precipice until one stroke hit _just_ right and she crashed over into release, her muscles spasming around Hermione’s fingers and a hoarse cry coming from her throat.

Hermione’s side put steadying pressure against one leg while her hand otherwise unoccupied kept her other leg from collapsing due to the pleasure coursing through her, rendering her near boneless. Only as Narcissa came back down from her orgasm did Hermione back off, slowly removing her fingers from inside of her and tilting her head upward to flash a self-satisfied grin.

“C’mere,” Narcissa lazily murmured, and without pulling her knickers or jeans up first, Hermione did as asked, playfully cupping Narcissa’s sex with a hand once they were face to face. Her breath hitched and she narrowed her eyes at Hermione without much venom behind the action. “I didn’t mean— ugh!” She swatted Hermione’s hand away and tugged up both articles of clothing, butting Hermione slightly against the toilet behind them to do so. Once she was fully dressed again, she pulled Hermione to her and connected their lips in a bruising kiss, thoroughly enjoying the groan she drew from her.

She peppered their kisses with words of gratitude and praise, and they were only finally interrupted by the door to the restroom creaking open, signalling that the Muggle-repellant had worn off. Not sure entirely how long it had been, Narcissa cast a nonverbal _tempus_. Unfortunately, it _was_ a weeknight and she _did_ have work in the morning, knowing full well that Hermione did, too.

“We should—” she started.

Hermione nodded against her shoulder. “Yeah.”

Unlocking the stall door with her fingers, they almost toppled out together in a heap, but Narcissa managed to hold them both up. The Muggle woman who had entered had apparently already entered a stall, and the sound of a flushing toilet confirmed it. Laughing alongside Hermione at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, they made their way out of the loo and bar entirely, only to stop outside near an alley that was safe for apparition.

After a pregnant pause, Narcissa took one of Hermione’s hands in her own. “Come home with me tonight?”

A slow smile spread across Hermione’s face. “Of course.”


	3. Chapter 3

Waking in the morning to an empty bed should have been nothing new to her. Yet when Narcissa opened her eyes at six o’clock, rays of sunlight slipping through the small cracks between shut blinds across the room, disappointment clawed its way into her chest and made a home in her heart when her stretched out arm met rumpled bedsheets instead of the warmth of another body. She forcibly shoved rising questions away, knowing without a doubt that it hadn’t been any sort of lacklustre skill in bed that had Hermione gone so early.

It was never supposed to be more than another one-night stand. She wasn’t sure _why_ she was entertaining upset over it until Hermione’s own words came back to her: “something akin to a proper date.” Was a one-night stand _something akin_ to Hermione— was she that out-of-touch with verbiage now? She groaned as she sat up in the bed, roughly raking her fingers back through her hair.

After shuffling to the loo and taking care of all of her business there, she returned with a towel wrapped around her body and rifled through her wardrobe, pushing aside the events of the last several plus hours in favour of approaching her workday with a sound mind. Or as sound a mind as possible when Faust reminded her rather loudly that he existed and therefore required sustenance.

Thawing out a few small rodents, she tossed them towards his overeager mouth, casting a _muffliato_ around him so she didn’t have to hear the sounds of him ingesting the things. She knew she should be used to owls’ diet, especially so as a pure-blood, but there was something so utterly disgusting about it still. Yet she kept him around for the little bit of Wizarding correspondence she still partook in: a few theoretical and practical magic academic journals, her Saturday Prophet subscription, a bi-weekly Witch Weekly subscription (her guilty pleasure), food orders from the Magical Menagerie for Faust, an essential potions chest subscription from Slug & Jiggers, and the regular owl contact she made with Andromeda as well as Draco. So, essentially she had him to pay bills, make a few orders, and write to her sister and son. How lovely, she begrudgingly thought as she dressed for work.

As she adjusted her cowl neckline, Narcissa’s eyes caught something she knew hadn’t been on her desk yesterday. In Hermione’s handwriting that she’d become increasingly familiar with. Ah. She had left her out of her list of owl correspondence, but why should she include her? Surely this was the equivalent of a _thanks for the sex, have a nice life_ letter, though more eloquently worded. A sharp pang of what might have been guilt shuddered through her body; was this how her one-night stands had felt to some of her Muggle partners in the past? It— no, she was sure that she had always been upfront as to what she was and was not looking for.

Hating herself for the apprehension in her fingers as she picked up the letter, she had to read through it twice before the meaning of it finally settled in her mind. She read through it a third time to make certain of the words Hermione had written.

> _Narcissa,_
> 
> _I probably should wake you up before I leave, but I hope you will forgive me. You look so peaceful sleeping that I can’t dare to disturb you. As my work is in Hogsmeade, I have to make two apparition trips to get there from the West Country, so I have to leave a bit early to make it to Edinburgh for a spot of breakfast before taking the second apparition trip to Hogsmeade and Hogwarts Preparatory. I could apparate only once, but I don’t recommend it— it’s rather taxing on your energy, I’ve found._
> 
> _Thank you for indulging me last night, in more ways than one. If I could be so forward, would you be willing to indulge me in another outing at least once more in around a few weeks’ time? I would like to meet before then as well if you are so inclined, but there are some things I need to settle for the outing that I only began to consider while lying in your bed this morning. And don’t ask me for details; I don’t give in all that easily._
> 
> _Waiting for your return owl,_
> 
> _Hermione Granger_

It… hadn’t been a one-night stand.

It hadn’t.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, she knew she hadn’t cast a levitation charm or anything like it on herself, but Narcissa felt impossibly light as she pulled a piece of parchment out from a drawer and wrote Hermione back before heading to work.

> _Hermione,_
> 
> _I shall have to return the favour and enjoy the sight of you sleeping in on the weekends, if you do such a thing. I would very much like to find out for myself if you are amenable to it. And do please stay with your two apparition trip; it would not do to arrive at work or back home with a depletion of energy that can easily be prevented. There are other, more worthwhile practices that result in that. We may have engaged in one last night._
> 
> _You don’t give in all that easily? I dare say that sounds like you are issuing a challenge. As for your question, you have piqued my interest. I will happily indulge you._
> 
> _With care,_
> 
> _Narcissa_

One aspect of working and living in the Muggle world that grated on her more today than it ever had before was the fact that she had to put a restriction on where her incoming post went as to not break the Statute of Secrecy. It could only be delivered to her house or to Andromeda’s residence if she was currently there with her sister. Otherwise? She had to wait until either her lunch break or after work entirely to see what had arrived during the day. It wouldn’t do for any owls to seek her out at the library while she worked.

The hours leading up to her forty-five minute break went so sluggishly that she wondered if time was passing at all, only for her wand hidden in its invisibility-charmed holster to suddenly shock her out of cataloguing French historical texts when the clock turned to one o’clock in the afternoon. Over the past few years, she’d located a few different spots to safely apparate from and utilised the one closest to the library to return to her home.

A rolled up piece of parchment was waiting for her in a little inbox she’d placed just inside of a half-opened window when she arrived, and after unfurling it her eyes took in the same meticulous script that Hermione wrote in; however, this time it wasn’t _quite_ as meticulous, and she soon found out why in the postscript of the note.

> _Narcissa,_
> 
> _Sleeping in on the weekend sounds absolutely divine. I am amenable to you finding out if you’re available to visit my flat tonight? If this is going too fast please let me know, but I had to take a chance. I am a Gryffindor, after all. And today_ is _Friday— the weekend approaches swiftly. Why not take the opportunity when we have it?_
> 
> _I await your return owl._
> 
> _With fondness,_
> 
> _Hermione_
> 
> _P. S. Please excuse my atrocious handwriting in this. Working with a class of children is as trying as it is rewarding. Half-day Fridays are a godsend— only a few hours left._

Too fast? Narcissa took a drink from her mug of tea as she ate her sandwich and worried her lip at the words. Her one-night stands with Muggle women had been the epitome of blazing fast, burning bright for a short time only to fizzle out, leaving her with a continual habit of denying herself lasting happiness. She was _used_ to that. Used to denying such a possibility for herself, but now… it seemed possibly within her grasp. She was… somewhat frightened. Her fight-or-flight response bristled under her skin, and she had to actively hold it at bay when writing Hermione back.

> _Hermione,_
> 
> _“Fast” is in the eye of the beholder. While I will… admit that I am not used to this, I am happy to visit you at your flat tonight._
> 
> _However, the weekend approaches_ swiftly _, you say? Perhaps for you, but not in my line of work in the Muggle world. Especially not today._
> 
> _With care,_
> 
> _Narcissa_
> 
> _P. S. I am slightly envious of your half-day, but do know that your handwriting is not atrocious._

Wholly expecting to arrive home after a few more hours of work only to change her attire and finalise the details of her apparition to Hermione’s flat, she was not at all prepared to find her sister leaning against part of her kitchen countertop chewing on some sort of sweet muffin when she returned from work at five-thirty that evening. It was only due to her considerable lessons on maintaining her composure from childhood and ample experience with Andromeda as a person that she didn’t react, but instead calmly set the handle of her small purse (with undetectable extension charm, of course) on a hook and greeted Andy as if she had been expecting her for days.

“Damn it, you’re no fun, Cissa,” her sister complained, wadding up the muffin’s wrapper and tossing it in the rubbish bin. “Anyone else has a right fright when I do this sort of thing.”

Narcissa repressed a snort, tutting instead. “You have a _habit_ of breaking into homes when you’re not invited? And I’m not just anyone else, Andromeda.” She glanced at the opened container of muffins and blinked myopically at her sister. “You need to reimburse me for that.”

With a small flourish she should have expected, a container—not from Tesco’s, but Honeydukes’—of Glacial Snow Candies’ _muffins_ appeared in Andromeda’s free hand. Four of them in clear packaging save for the brand name and design. From past experience, she knew they were peppermint and chocolate chip flavoured with a dash of something deliciously melt-in-your-mouth which caused a pleasant, shivering sensation to develop at the back of one’s neck and head. She lifted her gaze up to look at Andy in clear question, her head minutely tilted to one side.

“First off, it was partially facetious. I don’t just enter the homes of _strangers_.” Andromeda softly shook her head. “But back to what’s relevant here: you should take something to Hermione’s. It’s only good manners.”

Narcissa’s lips parted and she narrowed her eyes by a fraction, electing to ignore the part about _manners_. “How do you know about my plans tonight?”

“She wrote to me this morning while waiting for the children to arrive at Prep.” Andromeda set the container of muffins on the counter, flashing her a smile. “Strangely, the thought of you two makes sense when I think about it. She’s become rather like a daughter to me, though, adding to the oddity of it all if she becomes my sister-in-law…”

“Andromeda!” Heat ran to her cheeks and Narcissa stalked over to her sister, intending to give her a piece of her mind until she ran into an invisible barrier. Andromeda simply blinked at her, clearly waiting for her seething to die down. Narcissa crossed her arms over her chest and huffed. “We— I— to even _think_ of marriage after one night and a few letters. For Merlin’s sake, Andy. Perhaps I should insert myself into _your_ love life more often.”

“Ah, so it’s already love, then?” Andy smiled softly, and she saw no mocking in them now. “You don’t have to answer that, Narcissa,” she added, and quite acutely Narcissa realised that she was still flushed in the face. “I’m not _that_ much of an arsehole. But,” and she felt the barrier trickle away between them, “these are for you to take to her flat. After we apparate to my home and you Floo there instead. That’s mainly why I’m here.”

After taking the container and placing it snugly within a compartment of her purse to take with her, she drolly remarked, “Oh, _mainly_? So if I had connected this home to the Floo Network, you still would have shown up had Hermione contacted you?”

Andromeda blanched and swore out of the corner of her mouth. “Living with two Hufflepuffs all those years did a bit of a number on me, it seems. And I _swear_ Teddy is going to be one of those lovely badgers, too. But yes,” Andy smirked, “I would have shown up to _talk_ to you about this development and make sure my little sister is _presentable_.”

Half an hour later, Andromeda was still milking the faint imprint of Narcissa’s hand across her right cheek for all it was worth and more. Even though she could easily remove it and had at least allowed Narcissa to heal the sting of it and any potential light bruising it may have caused, she deliberately chose not to. The nine-year-old Teddy Lupin had already scolded Narcissa for hurting her sister to which she’d apologised yet again to Andromeda in front of the boy but had rolled her eyes after he left for his toys again.

“Still not sure why you had to slap me,” Andy remarked with such false innocence in her voice that it almost made Narcissa sick. She sniffed instead, a rather good impression of her former haughtiness that she had adopted while living in the midst of pure-blood society, and smoothed out the soft green robes she’d put on. It had been so long since she’d worn anything fit for a witch’s wardrobe that it was almost like looking into a window to her past but without any of the weight that she’d used to carry with it.

Passing by her sister, she paused to squeeze Andy’s arm and say, “You know very well that _I_ was the one trying to make sure _you_ were presentable when we were younger. I’ve never needed help in that way.”

Andromeda groaned. “Don’t remind me, Cissa.” She hesitated as they met gazes again, and in a soft voice, her sister said, “Also, Hermione told me that you didn’t know… what you did that day. How you helped her. I’m sorry I never brought it up. I truly thought you knew and didn’t want to bring up a still rather painful memory. I wish I had now, though.”

Narcissa closed the small distance between them and gathered her older sister into her arms. Andromeda stood still for a moment, then relaxed into the hug and returned it. “It’s okay, Andy,” Narcissa murmured. “You were trying to protect me in your own way, weren’t you?”

Andy sniffled faintly then rubbed Narcissa’s back and kissed her on the cheek before pulling away. With a cocky grin, she gently pushed on Narcissa’s breastbone. “ Just go to your witch already, will you?” There was a moment’s pause, then Andy said more quietly, “You _do_ remember how to use the Floo, right?”

Not deigning that with a response, Narcissa simply strode the short distance over to the fireplace, took a pinch of Floo powder, stepped into the hearth, and called out for Hermione Granger’s flat after she tossed the powder down. Quickly enveloped in heatless green flames, the last thing she did was give Andy a small smirk before the Floo whisked her off to her destination.

* * *

“Oh, bloody buggering hell,” Narcissa muttered as she held her smarting elbows in her hands and walked out of the Floo into Hermione’s flat. How she’d forgotten to tuck them in at her sides she didn’t know, though figured she could go ahead and blame it on her _ever-so-wonderful_ sister for asking that damned question, causing her to lose some of her concentration. Granted, she could never tell Andy what had happened or she’d never hear the end of it. She could hear her sister now, claiming that she’d been right to worry. Huffing, Narcissa rubbed her elbows a few times more then vanished the soot from her robes and finally looked beyond herself.

Since the last time she’d visited the flat Hermione had unpacked the rest of her boxes and decorated along the walls. There were a few decorative tables with small stacks of books, flowers and tame Herbology plants, even a few more well-placed photographs of both the Muggle and Wizarding variety. Hermione also appeared to have a taste in paintings not too dissimilar from her own: vast yet somehow intimate landscapes of the sea, the Scottish Highlands, and what appeared to be a tranquil autumnal scene from Dartmoor adorned a few walls.

The decor of the flat couldn’t completely tear her thoughts away from wondering where Hermione was, though. After setting the container of muffins on a table, she saw that it was nearly six-thirty; Andromeda had assured her that Hermione was fond of welcoming people early, and she wasn’t _that_ early to arrive. Only five or so minutes. The odd quiet of the flat was perturbing, though she assumed it was due to a noise dampening charm— flats were never _this_ quiet naturally, considering neighbours were only a wall apart. However, the still silence was fractured by a loud crack a few seconds later and any peace that might have eventually grown in the quiet was destroyed with a loud swear and the thwack of what sounded like rolled-up parchment hitting a wall.

Though all of her Slytherin instincts told her to stay away, to not interfere, the curiosity that had had the Sorting Hat consider her for Ravenclaw won out. When she reached the end of a short hall and turned right into an open doorway, she was met with the sight of Hermione holding her face in her hands, her chest rising and falling rapidly, and the beginnings of trembling shoulders. A quick glance to the opposite wall saw a partially unfurled, small stack of parchments that had been rolled up with a string.

“Hermione…” she started, tentatively walking into the bedroom. Narcissa watched as Hermione slowly peeled her hands away from her reddened face as if wondering if she’d even heard a voice at all, then upon meeting her eyes she groaned and slapped her palm back to her face for an instant.

“I—” Hermione swore again. “Sorry, I, Ginny’s working as a freelance Quidditch reporter for the Daily Prophet, and she’s got, well… _connections_. And,” the partially unfurled parchments were handed to Narcissa, “ _somehow_ , Rita Skeeter’s obtained the intimate details of Ron and I’s _irreconcilable differences_ that led to our divorce. If nothing’s bloody well done, all of Wizarding Britain will become privy to my— my infertility. My _private_ health matters. I typically don’t care what rubbish that rag could print about me, but this?” 

It was only due to her lessons as a child that Narcissa’s jaw didn’t completely drop. Trying to wrap her head around it all, she unfurled the parchments the rest of the way and read through parts of the Ministerial divorce proceedings transcript, no part of which explicitly detailed what those irreconcilable differences were. However, certain key phrases had been circled with ink and numbered. On the last piece of parchment were all those numbers and phrases written down again, along with a few illuminating quotes from a so-called anonymous source who was supposedly close to both parties involved in the divorce.

“Before you ask, it’s not someone who’s actually _close_ with either of us. Harry wouldn’t, nor would Ginny, and they’re the only ones besides you who know from the source—from my side, that is—why the divorce happened, or at least what was the last straw for Ronald.”

There was a bit of grumbling from Hermione then that Narcissa couldn’t make out, but after a few moments, she continued, “But Ginny, she’s,”—Hermione chuckled under her breath—“got her methods, and Rita loves to talk under the right circumstances. Ginny managed to pull the name of the anonymous source.” Narcissa noticed Hermione’s fingers curl into tight fists. “It’s bloody _Lavender Brown_. I don’t know what she gets out of this, but it’s clear she and Ron have been rather _chummy_ again. I—” Hermione looked at her plaintively, “I’m sorry, but I need to go set things straight. I can’t promise I’ll be back within half an hour or even an hour or more. You can still stay here if you want, I just—”

Narcissa wrapped a hand around Hermione’s arm and squeezed. “Do what you must, darling,” she said, not noticing the term of endearment that slipped through, “I’ll order us some food in a little while and if you’re not back by then, I’ll set yours to stasis so it keeps. I’m rather adept at those charms and can make one last for several hours if necessary, so take your time.”

She was immediately pulled into an almost crushing hug the moment the last word left her lips, and Hermione subtly tightened her arms around Narcissa for a moment as she responded, “Damn it, woman, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m fucking glad I went to break down in that bar that night all those weeks ago.”

Narcissa chuckled softly. “Likewise. But Merlin, I hope you don’t use that kind of language around the children, dear.”

“Of course I don’t,” Hermione pulled away but still held onto Narcissa’s arms with her hands. She smirked. “I save that language for _adult-only_ audiences.”

“You,” Narcissa pursed her lips and hung her head slightly, enough so that their foreheads touched as she shut her eyes, “You’re wicked right now, you’re aware?” Breaking apart, she witnessed Hermione raising her eyebrows and running both of her hands back through her hair, pulling it into a ponytail with a hairband that’d been wrapped around one of her wrists. Her gaze turned steely in an instant.

“Have to prepare myself, don’t I?” she groused, but snapped out of it for a few moments, cracking a smile once more, capturing Narcissa’s lips and nibbling playfully on the lower one before pulling away again. “Maybe order some wine with the food, too? We’re celebrating once I’m back with results. I _will_ be back before Midnight at the latest; I’m not leaving a woman alone at my flat the entire night if I can help it.”

With one more quick peck to her lips, Narcissa watched almost dumbfounded as a crack split the air and Hermione Granger disapparated.

“Salazar’s _fucking_ scales,” she whispered in awe to the empty space around her.

* * *

It was half-past nine when the Floo roared to life, and Narcissa looked up from the 2006 edition of the _European Journal of Experimental Charms_ that she had settled into reading for the past half-hour. Fifteen minutes in she’d solidified that she was going to add it to her list of subscriptions, though she wondered if… no, she could afford it. She was Narcissa Black, and even though the vast majority of the Black fortune was gone and the Malfoy funds had all but dried up entirely after war reparations went through— which was partially why Draco had moved to France— she wasn’t destitute. Though, shortly before the Floo activated, it passed through her mind that a rather excellent alternative would be to ask Hermione to read her copies after she finished. Even if she’d never had to do that in her life before.

But that train of thought collapsed entirely when, after Hermione emerged from the Floo, a woman with wavy, light chestnut blonde hair followed after her, sniffling and crying a little as she came through. She was clad in only deep grey sweatpants and a faded purple jumper that was partially hiked up on her hip.

Hermione turned, caught Narcissa’s eye, and said in a voice barely loud enough to decipher, “This is Lavender. She didn’t mean to,”—there was a visible wince from Hermione—“I was wrong. She was… trying to help me out. Parvarti helped her see the mistake, and she was just about to go and…” Narcissa stood as Hermione let out a groan and rubbed at her forehead, creating wrinkles where there were none. The other woman, Lavender, was rubbing at reddened eyes and hadn’t taken notice of Narcissa yet. She was hoping that even when she did see her, she wouldn’t remember her from Adam as the Muggles so said, but…

“You’re Narcissa Malfoy!” a high-pitched voice exclaimed, and she turned with lifeless eyes towards the witch who was on the verge of receiving a well-placed hex to her person. Perhaps her gaping, spluttering mouth. It was no matter that she had clearly been crying even as she went through the Floo, and she… But gods, what had Hermione been on about? Narcissa curled her fingers, pressing almost blunt nails into her palms, and took a few steadying breaths.

Finally, she said in a clipped tone: “It’s Black now.”

“And what does that have to—” but Lavender was caught off guard with a silencing spell, one that Narcissa hadn’t cast. She snapped her eyes to catch Hermione tapping her wand against the outside of her thigh. This was entirely not how she expected the evening to go, fully expecting Hermione to handle it and come back _alone_. Turning her head away, she almost wanted to growl about misfortune after misfortune until a hand came to rest against one of her shoulders. It applied light, reassuring pressure.

“Let’s sit down at the table, hm? You saved some food on stasis, right?” questioned Hermione, gently guiding Narcissa towards the kitchen several steps away. She heard this other witch, this _Lavender_ , following them, and asked Hermione to _please_ explain why she had brought her back with her.

And while Hermione ate, sharing a bit of her meal with Lavender, the two of them told her everything. How Ronald Weasley had owled Lavender recently, asking if she’d like to get together for old time’s sake as two fellow Gryffindors, how Parvarti had been finishing up a two-month-long sabbatical with Sybill Trelawney and Firenze, and Lavender had been desperately lonely without her fiancée for so long. She’d accepted Ron over without question, and he’d come onto her after getting pissed off his arse. She’d had to nearly hex him out of her and Parvati’s flat. It was then that Mr Weasley had gone off on a tirade about Hermione, revealing her infertility and all of their other problems.

“I went to Rita wanting to destroy him,” Lavender said, then took a long drink of tea. “But— but she’s twisted what I said, and I—”

Hermione reached over and patted Lavender’s hand. “You didn’t know she has some ridiculous lifelong grudge against me for making her register as that dreadful beetle Animagus. She’ll do anything to, well, fuck me over.” That drew a spot of laughter from Lavender, and Narcissa… certainly had a lot to consider, including how to handle these two predicaments.

While it was evident that the other witch hadn’t meant to actively hurt Hermione or drag her name through the mud, she still… Merlin, perhaps she simply should give this Lavender Brown the benefit of the doubt. Hermione certainly knew her much, much better as they had both been dorm mates in Gryffindor, and they’d had something of a troubled past from what she could gather from all that had been said tonight. What she focused on instead was finding solutions for the two problems at hand, cycling through various ones until she finally—

“Narcissa?” Hermione’s voice vaguely registered.

She raised her head, only now noticing that she’d been staring almost unblinkingly at a notch in Hermione’s table, one of her forefingers tracing the rim of her mug. Their wine and the muffins she’d brought over were forgotten for the night, and she saw Lavender perusing the refrigerator with an awestruck look on her face. Narcissa cleared her throat. “As I see it,” she paused for a moment, taking a drink, “we have two things that need action plans. One: handling your ex-husband’s mouth, and two: stopping Rita Skeeter from running that article in not only the Prophet, but sending it to any other publication. I have suggestions for both, if you would like to hear them?”

Hermione blinked a few times, and Lavender turned her attention back to them both, shutting the refrigerator door behind her before leaning back against it. After one shared look with the other Gryffindor witch, Hermione turned back towards Narcissa and rested her chin in her hands, her elbows leaning against the table as a slow smile spread across her face.

“We’re listening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I know, it was never made clear if Lavender Brown actually died in the books, so I'm going with "she didn't" for this fic and ignoring her death in the movies.


End file.
